Pale
by ncfan
Summary: The dead did not come back.


I own nothing.

* * *

The morning that greeted Turgon was not so different from the one that had greeted him the day before. Vása shone at once too brightly and not brightly enough through the windows; he could hear birds chirping outside (Probably perched on the eaves somewhere). Otherwise, there was silence. Turgon sighed and slid out of bed.

The day's itinerary was much like yesterday's as well. Yesterday had seen talks on mining in the Echoriath for iron ore, talks that, well, had not exactly gone _well_. Rog was the one who had called for the talks and had brought several of the smiths of his house to help him plead his case. Roughly half of the lords supported Rog's request, but the other half vocally did not. Penlodh in particular was vehemently against the idea of mining in the Echoriath, which frankly surprised Turgon, as the two rarely spoke against one another in council. The arguments against mining ranged from the devastation of the natural landscape, to the fears that mining would catch Morgoth's attention and alert the Enemy to Gondolin's location. Nothing had been decided yesterday, and Turgon was not sure that anything would be decided today.

Open court would be held at three in the afternoon, and last until six. Turgon wasn't really looking forward to that any more than he was to the council session. Turgon didn't usually mind holding open court, did not mind hearing the voices of his people, but when it came after a taxing council session, he could only feel tense as the petitioners stepped forward. Turgon could only imagine how unwelcoming he appeared on such occasions.

Truth be told, the only thing he was looking forward to today was going down to the market with Idril as he had promised her. Turgon's duties took him from his daughter's side more often than he liked; he'd not seen Idril except at mealtimes for three days now. It would be good to spend time with family again.

(The shadow of absence notwithstanding.)

There was something of a commotion outside.

A multitude of clashing voices sounded outside the main entrance to the King's Hall, beyond the shut double-doors. Turgon frowned at the great cedar doors. The steps and the square below were rarely heavily occupied, and never so early in the morning. Had there been an accident? Had Rog gathered with his people outside of the Hall? Had one of the other lords, Penlodh or maybe Duilin, who had raised his voice alongside Penlodh's in condemnation of mining in the Echoriath?

_What is it about arguments that makes adults behave like children? _Turgon wondered irritably, remembering all the times Angrod and Caranthir had come to blows or nearly gone that far over petty squabbling. _I do expect better of my lords, though_.

A loud, sharp laugh cut above the clamor.

Turgon froze.

_What? _His heart began to pound off-beat, rapping painfully against his ribcage. _That voice_…

Turgon stepped forward as though in a dream. He flung the doors open as though they weren't twice his height or a foot thick, as though two neri working together would not have struggled to open _one_, let alone both. The sky was utterly without clouds and the sunlight reflected too-bright on the white stone. Turgon blinked, struggling to focus his eyes upon the square.

Where before there had been a great clamor, now there was deathly silence. The crowd gathered in the square was in the dozens, possibly even exceeding a hundred. Turgon caught sight of Idril first, though she was not the one his frantic eyes searched for. Idril grinned hugely, her cheeks flushed bright pink. She was standing near the front of the crowd, and just a moment later, two tall, dark-haired Eldar stepped out to the front of the crowd.

One was an adolescent boy with long, lanky limbs and dark eyes that darted to and fro. The other was a nís, with white dress and green cloak, pale of face.

Aredhel's brow was furrowed, her mouth set into a strange, ambivalent line. "Turukáno," she greeted him. Her voice was kept neutral, her pale gaze a little too guarded.

He stared at her, stricken. "You… How can you be here?" Turgon choked out.

She didn't seem as she had before she had left him. She seemed faded, stretched-out. There were cares and secret fears in her face that had not been there when he last saw her, though she'd had cares aplenty even then. Perhaps it was an effect of the sunlight, but she seemed like the children of the Exile who were born without ever having seen the light of the Trees. Diminished. This could have been a dream, and a cruel dream it would have been.

Aredhel raised an eyebrow, and for a moment looked exactly as she had before she left Gondolin. "I got a horse and rode on it. That seems straightforward enough."

The dead did not come back. That, Turgon had always known—in Beleriand, the dead did not come back. The people of Aman would receive their dead eventually, but the Exiles would never look into the eyes of their dead again. In Beleriand, the dead did not come back.

No one had ever recovered her body from the blighted land of Nan Dungortheb, but at the same time no one, Turgon least of all, had supposed that Aredhel had survived her journey through that place. Strong and hardy Aredhel might have been, but there were few who could stand against Ungoliant's spawn. Through the intervening years, Turgon had found himself tormented by his doubt. There was no body, but she must be dead. She must be dead, and yet there was no body.

(The doubt tormented him in other ways: If he'd not restrained her for so long, might she not have set off so recklessly? Might she have gone on to Fingon's lands, or to Barad Eithel where their father ruled, instead of crossing Nan Dungortheb to get to their cousins? He could never speak to her again, and could never know.)

The dead did not come back, and yet…

"I never thought I would see you again."

"Well… Things rarely turn out as we'd planned." There was a distinctly bitter quirk of her lip at the words, but Turgon would not remember it until much later.

His vision blurred; hot tears rolled down his cheeks. Though Turgon would normally have balked at such a display of emotion before his people, he found that, for once, he did not care at all. He started down the steps, but Aredhel met him halfway, reaching out just as he did.

She had returned pale and fey and careworn, but indeed, the White Lady had returned to Gondolin. For once, the dead did come back, and Turgon could once more look upon one he had long deemed lost.

* * *

**Turukáno**—Turgon

**Vása**—a name given to the Sun by the Noldor, signifying 'The Consumer' (Exilic Quenya); of the Sun and the Moon, it is the younger of the two vessels, lit by Laurelin's last fruit  
**Neri**— men (singular: nér)  
**Eldar**—'People of the Stars' (Quenya); a name first given to the Elves by Oromë when he found them by Cuiviénen, but later came to refer only to those who answered the summons to Aman and set out on the March, with those who chose to remain by Cuiviénen coming to be known as the Avari; the Eldar were composed of these groups: the Vanyar, Noldor (those among them who chose to go to Aman), and the Teleri (including their divisions: the Lindar, Falmari, Sindar and Nandor).  
**Nís**—woman (plural: nissi)

Yeah, I know someone probably would've woken Turgon up, shhh.


End file.
